Claus Trilogy (Boxed Set)

by Tony Bertauski

  The outer walls are ten-foot-tall holly hedges loaded with red berries. There are arching exits carved out of each of the four foliar walls. Sura is standing in the western opening.

  “Mr. Jonah?” she calls.

  There’s a distant sound of snipping metal. She tentatively walks down the stone-carved steps and around the outside of the boxwood maze. The sculpture is made of a strange material, oddly translucent. Like ice.

  Snip, snip, snip.

  She hesitates at the northern, leafy archway. It’s dark beneath a canopy of wax myrtles and protected from the cold mist, but still she hesitates. And she’s not sure why. It feels like someone’s watching her. The sculpture maybe.

  Sura grips the sweetgrass basket until the handle creaks, steps through the archway and into the shadows—

  She runs into a boy with an armful of branches. Orange berries spill on the ground. He drops the thorny stems, shaking his hand.

  “I’m sorry!” Sura says. “I didn’t, I wasn’t sure—”

  “It’s all right.” He sucks on his finger. “Not your fault, it was an accident.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Firethorn is a little sharp.”

  Black hair curls from his gray stocking cap. He puts his finger in his mouth again. His skin is olive. His eyes are blue. Like, really blue. He smiles around his finger and bends over to pick up the berries.

  “Oh, sorry.” Sura drops the basket on the ground. “Those are for me; let me help.”

  “Be careful.”

  Sura plucks each bunch off the ground like bugs. The boy sweeps the loose berries into piles with the edge of his hand. His finger is smudged with blood.

  “Do you work out here?” she asks.

  “Only when Jonah needs help.”

  “Mr. Jonah?”

  “The one and only.”

  “He takes care of all the gardens?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Sura sneaks a peek at the boy. He looks about her age, but she’s never seen him at school. Maybe he lives in the other direction. Maybe he’s homeschooled. She wonders if his homeschool has room for one more.

  The sweetgrass basket is overflowing with firethorn. Sura sits back on her heels, watching him meticulously pluck the loose berries from the mulch, as if he doesn’t want anything going to waste. He feels her looking.

  Staring is more like it.

  “I’m Joe.” He puts out his hand.

  “Sura.”

  His hand is callused, but warm. “I know.”

  “Do I know you?”

  He shakes his head and returns to gathering berries. He rubs his finger. The bleeding has stopped.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not the first time I’ve been stuck, trust me.” He laughs. “Besides, it’s easy to get lost out here. A secret around every corner.”

  Secret? “You live out here?”

  “Uh, no.” He chuckles again. “Who wants to live with Templeton?”

  They share a long, knowing laugh that feeds on itself. They both must have the same thoughts about Templeton. Maybe he hasn’t had anyone to share that inside joke with until now. She wants to shake his hand again. Because it’s so warm, like the laughter in her belly.

  “Jonah?” An old man appears at the end of the leafy tunnel, as if he stepped out of the shrubbery. His thin hair is swept back over his head.

  “Oui?” Joe says.

  “Enough talking.”

  Jonah’s lips are hidden beneath a bushy, black mustache. His dark eyes fall on Sura, watching her. Absorbing her. He looks up at nothing in particular, his body somewhat frozen in thought. Perhaps remembering. Perhaps wishing.

  He turns around and pushes through the shrubs, leaves swallowing him up.

  “Are you French?” Sura asks.

  “Jonah speaks it sometimes. I just know bits and pieces.”

  “And he’s your… dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you call him ‘Dad’?”

  “I don’t know.” He looks away. He knows why, but he’s not telling her. Jonah looked troubled when he saw Sura—she felt it. It was the same with her mom. Whenever she was having a blue day, Sura felt it. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about his dad the same way she doesn’t want to talk about her mom.

  Although, his dad is alive.

  “I have to go back.” Sura finally stands. “Nice meeting you.”

  She thinks that maybe she’ll shake his hand, but that would be stupid. Instead, she turns to exit through the archway that leads back to the boxwood maze.

  “Hey.” Joe reaches for his back pocket. “We’re sorry about your mother.”

  It’s a long stem with a white camellia bloom and three shiny leaves. He holds it out for her. She reaches for it, their fingers lightly brushing. She smells it; there’s not much fragrance. The petals—tickling her nose—are cleanly arranged and perfectly balanced. White as snow.

  “It’s a Seafoam camellia,” he says. “Your mother’s favorite.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Jonah said so.”

  She brushes it under her nose, the petals soft and spongy. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I agree.”

  But he’s not looking at the flower. At least, that’s what she wants to believe.

  Sura tucks the flower behind her ear and floats out of the garden, hardly feeling the gravel path or the stone steps beneath her feet. If the sculpture were watching her, she wouldn’t know it. The basket is hooked on the crook of her arm, berries trickling behind her like bread crumbs.

  “Heh-em.” Templeton is standing in the road, gloved hands at his side. He flicks a glance at the flower sprouting from her hair. “If you’re quite done with daydreaming, you can take the firethorn berries through the mudroom in back. May will meet you. You can follow her to the craft room from there.”

  Templeton looks at the flower once more, shakes his head, and walks to the front steps, arms at his sides. Sura skips in the other direction, hoping maybe he’ll see her, that maybe it’ll put a little sway in his rigid hips. Light rain begins to fall, but none of that bothers her as she rounds the corner to the back of the house, wearing a smile that even Templeton can’t wipe off her face.

  A door slams.

  She expects to see May on the back porch, hands planted on her doughy hips. The steps are empty, though. There’s a pair of slanted doors set in the foundation of the porch to the right of the stairs. One of the doors appears to be raised, revealing a slice of darkness inside. She sees a flash of yellow.

  The door drops.

  That feeling of being watched tingles along the back of her neck this time.

  -------------------------

  Mr. Frost stands at the edge of the tower’s room, hairy toes pressed against the dark glass that extends from floor to ceiling. One hand rests on his belly, the other digging through the thicket of hair on the back of his head, scratching his neck.

  The root is itching.

  It’s a perennial ache, like a ghostly finger pushing on the base of his skull. Scratching does little good, but there’s little else he can do. At least it doesn’t burn. That memory, although two hundred years old, is quite clear. And for that he is grateful. He can deal with itching.

  A cold day embraces the landscape, drizzling tiny droplets that drift against the slanted glass, marring the outside world. The old flooded rice fields shimmer in the distance.

  The slow-motion precipitation reminds him of snow.

  Jonah exits the north tunnel and enters the boxwood maze. Joe isn’t far behind with a wheelbarrow full of tools. Mr. Frost imagines their foreheads slick with perspiration.

  He begins to sit.

  A chair forms from the shiny black floor in time for his round bottom to sit comfortably. He leans back, nuzzling his head into the headrest, staring at the starred ceiling.

  Is Jonah happy with such simple work? Does he find joy in plowing the land and carrying twigs? Does he ever want more?
<
br />   Mr. Frost can have anything he desires. If he projects a thought into the room, it will materialize within seconds. All his desires can be manifested in the tower room. This technology was quite satisfying when he first developed it, but now…

  Is he happy?

  Mr. Frost closes his eyes, sensing the ache of longing inside his belly. It pervades his being, saturating him like hunger. But hungry for what?

  I just want this to be over.

  That concerns me, sir.

  Mr. Frost is startled by the sudden intrusion. I thought you were busy.

  When you have self-destructive thoughts—

  Thoughts, Freeda. I’m aware they’re just thoughts. Nothing else.

  He remains tense, waiting for a reply. It seems to satisfy her, and soon he drifts into a light sleep, nestled comfortably in his desires. He avoids getting too cozy with his thoughts of never waking up, or Freeda will intervene and ruin his nap.

  Snick.

  The unmistakable sound of the elevator cylinder rises behind Mr. Frost. Perhaps if he lies still, it’ll go back.

  “Are you going to sit there feeling sorry for yourself all day?”

  Mr. Frost smacks his lips and rubs his tired eyes. He spins the lounger around. Templeton stands in the center, with a spotlight beaming up from the floor, while balancing a silver tray and teapot on the tips of his gloved fingers.

  He’s impeccably dressed without winter clothing, clouds streaming from his nostrils. The rest of the room is black and empty except for Max curled up on a pillow, a white ball of fur with a wary eye on the visitor.

  “Do you mind?” Templeton nods at the floor.

  The insolence of this manservant brings a sly grin to Mr. Frost. It always does.

  Bring the room online, Freeda.

  Objects emerge from the floor, filling it with desks, shelves, and the fish tank. Monitors lit with electric images chatter around the room. The floor in front of Templeton becomes dull so he can walk without slipping. A path leads to a low table glowing beneath a pale light. He slides the silver tray on it, muttering loud enough for Mr. Frost to hear, but not discern.

  Templeton takes a dainty teacup from the tray and tips the teapot, wrinkling his nose and frowning. Fish oil fragrance wafts up. Templeton looks ill whenever he pours the drink. He makes a point to let Mr. Frost know it.

  “You really should turn the fish tank when you drink,” Templeton says. “You’re savoring a distillation of his people.”

  “He’s not a person, Templeton.” Mr. Frost sits up. “He’s a fish.”

  “So he has no feelings?”

  “Ask him, if you like.”

  Templeton shakes his head. His argument is never won. Never forfeited.

  Mr. Frost slides to the table on one foot, easing to a stop. He sips the chilled fish oil through thick whiskers where the lovely scent will linger for hours. He lifts the lid from a small porcelain container and plucks out an anchovy, dropping it in his drink. He slurps again.

  Perfect.

  The news outlets blabber about the weather, the economy, and global strife. A fire burned a house down. Mr. Frost makes a note to send the family money. The blood bank is seeking donors. Nothing he can do about that. But he listens. Day and night, he listens for a report about a strange discovery of a short man with greenish hair.

  The chatter dampens to a low hum.

  “I can’t hear myself think.” Templeton is pecking at a nearby keyboard. He fusses with the controls to turn the volume lower and bring the lights up, so that it feels more like daylight inside the tower.

  I’d be happy to deny his access to the room, sir.

  It’s quite all right, Freeda.

  Mr. Frost slides to the glass wall, teacup perched beneath his hidden nostrils. The drink soothes the loneliness, despite the gray day.

  “There’s nothing on the news,” Templeton reports. “Thermal imaging is not detecting anything on the property that doesn’t run on four legs. Analysis suggests Jack is dead. He’ll be alligator breakfast when spring arrives, if the turkey buzzards don’t find him.”

  Mr. Frost turns.

  “What?” Templeton looks up from the control panel. “Ask Freeda if you don’t believe me.”

  “A little compassion is in order.”

  “Please. It was just a body, no one inside. We call that meat, not a person.”

  That’s why he likes Templeton. He spares nothing to spout the truth.

  “You need to initiate Jack’s incubator lines and start again,” Templeton says. “You missed on this one anyway, you got to admit. He was too hairy and green, for God’s sake. He probably woke up, got a look at himself, and wrecked the place. If he remembered anything, he probably would’ve come looking for you to get back for what you did to him, so you should count yourself lucky.”

  The hair is temporary, but Mr. Frost doesn’t feel the need to explain the process to Templeton.

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Templeton adds. “All genius is preceded by guessing. I’m just saying life doesn’t stop because you failed, so put on your big-boy pants and get back to work. Let me remind you that Christmas is in three weeks. Jack wrecked the lab on his way out and production is behind. The schedule is tight. Stop daydreaming.”

  Templeton’s toe tapping sounds like he’s hammering a nail. Mr. Frost inhales the salty wonder of fish oil. It tingles in his sinuses.

  “Fine,” Templeton says. “Be that way.”

  The tray clatters. Exaggerated footsteps walk toward the center of the room.

  “How’d it go?” Mr. Frost nods at Joe returning to the garden to fetch a pair of forgotten loppers. He gets to the barn before the hard rain comes.

  “You mean Sura meeting Joe for the first time?”

  “Of course.”

  “Like clockwork.” Templeton then mutters, “Silly question.”

  The elevator snicks closed, humming as it sinks into the floor.

  Silence returns.

  Mr. Frost doesn’t assume Sura and Joe are going to hit it off, despite Templeton’s confidence. There’s always a chance it could sour.

  Mr. Frost calls the news chatter volume back up. He drifts around the room, teacup teetering on his belly. He surveys the various holographic images beamed into his room from satellites in space, several of them exclusively owned by Frost Plantation Enterprises.

  He grabs a handful of kernels from a table and tosses them into the fish tank. The fish doesn’t seem to mind there’s a cup of fish oil balanced on Mr. Frost’s belly. Fish eat each other, why would he care?

  Mr. Frost slides near the furball on the pillow. He digs a small, silver tin out of his shirt, something he keeps pressed against his skin at all times. Max sits up as Mr. Frost opens the lid and pinches a few kernels—a few very special kernels—between his fingers.

  Max gobbles them up.

  I hate to say it, but Templeton is right, sir. We need to start the lines. And production is woefully behind.

  He scratches Max’s chin. Wait another week, just to be sure. There’s still time to find him. The last thing I need is two of him fully awake.

  He scratches his neck. Freeda can’t override this order. Mr. Frost only has to bring Jack back once.

  It doesn’t matter how long it takes.

  As long as he gets it right.

  And it’s got to be more than meat.

  -------------------------

  Tatatatatatat…

  Jack hears a hammer on a long, cold, metal spike.

  It drives a steady beat, an echoing cadence that rattles inside his skull.

  Nothing he can do about it. He’s frozen stiff, helpless beneath blankets that seem to make it worse. He can’t get away. The cold fills him like mercury.

  Hammer on nail.

  Tatatatatatat…

  “I can’t take this,” someone shouts. That someone is Pickett. “Every night with the chattering, I can’t take it. Three days now and this cat is snapping his jaw all night.”

&nbs
p; Someone moans.

  “I’d rather listen to sirens than those big, square teeth sending telegrams.”

  A bunk creaks. Someone lands on the floor. It’s too dark to see, but Jack hears him breathing through his mouth, smells something foul hover over him. He must have eaten a poop sandwich before bed.

  “He sick or something,” Sheldon says. He apparently ate from the same sewage salad bar as Pickett. A fiery hand lands on Jack’s forehead and quickly pulls away. “Dude feels like ice.”

  “I don’t care, I can’t take it. I’m dreaming about woodpeckers and stuff.”

  “Tell Willie.”

  “Willie ain’t going to do nothing.”

  The stink fades, but it’s inside Jack now. All the smells of warmblood civilization are soaked inside Jack. He feels like a sponge dipped in ink, all spoiled, just living among them. If there’s one thing he hates more than warmbloods staring at him—and they get quite the eyeful, no doubt—it’s their smell.

  They leave it everywhere.

  It’s in the streets and on the buildings; it’s in their clothes and the food they eat. Whatever they touch… stinks. It’s thick with decay and artificiality.

  Civilization, they call this.

  There’s no escaping it. He’s sure of it. Three days of wandering the concrete—his thick, scaly soles crushing bottles and kicking rocks—and he’s found no way out. Just endless streets.

  No sign of ice.

  Jack yearns for the pure touch of fresh snow, for the sight of a panoramic horizon and the sky splashed with Northern Lights. It’s not here, among the warmbloods. They sit in cars that cough smoke, consumed by something called Christmas. They carry brightly colored bags from shops and put them in their cars so they can drive to another shop and get more bags.

  They act so happy, but they’re faking it. He can tell.

  Somehow, he landed in the United States. Charleston, to be exact. He still doesn’t remember much but has the distinct intuition that he belongs on the North Pole, in the same way birds know to fly south. But then how would he survive? It’s seventy degrees in the shelter and he’s a block of ice.